This Patch of Paradise
by La Phoenix
Summary: AU A coffee shop first meeting between our dynamic duo


Paste your document here...The woman sitting at the counter of the coffee shop is pretty. Beautiful even. He's known other stunning women, women he's stared at, helplessly entranced by their beauty. A pang blooms in his chest, and he determinedly chases it away. But this woman...there's something about her that stands out, some nameless thing that has him perform a double take at her profile. He shakes his head, chasing away his idiotic musings. Not that he had anything better to do, being stuck in an airport waiting for the aircraft to either arrive/refuel/be put back together with duct tape...whatever excuse it has for running late. Thankfully, he'd booked his connecting flight for two days afterward and should arrive at JFK in plenty of time to head home to London.

As he approaches the counter to place his order, his peripheral vision picks up her quick glance in his direction. Only thing it's not so quick and not quite a glance; he realises she's actually staring. _Not bad, old man, and without saying a word!_ He feels himself stand a bit taller – as if he could stretch past 6 feet 1 inch of gangly bones – and turns to her all charm and smiles, only to fade slightly in the wake of her look.

She's not ogling as much as frowning him up and down, raking her dark-eyes over his frame, and looking decidedly unimpressed. He can't help frowning back, but before he can ask or say anything, she turns back to her mug, evidently choosing not to engage in conversation.

Well, so much for making a good impression.

He slinks away, nursing his pride, then catches himself mentally. It wouldn't be the first time a woman didn't fancy him – or didn't want anything to do with him – but normally he'd have to start talking first. About American History and George Washington and the secret lives of Founding Fathers. Then zoned out and uninterested, they would leave him be. He'd learned the hard way that when asked about his interests, he should be selective in his responses and enthusiasm to non-faculty members. This complete rejection was a record, even for him.

As he sits at the table, he pulls out his laptop and starts fleshing out the ideas bumping around in his head. The Sleepy Hollow outreach series had been a godsend. To come to the place scholars had suspected was an important meeting point for the Founding Fathers and see firsthand the very buildings they used! Viewing parchment written by Washington himself! Suffice to say that when the Dean's personal assistant turned up with invitation in hand, offhandedly commenting, "It sounds just up your alley", it had been all he could do to restrain himself from hugging her with delight. He believed his lecture and subsequent ideas had made a favourable impression on Dr. Lewis, the head of Sleepy Hollow University's History Department, and they'd discussed the possibility of turning it into an annual lecturing event, with a number of days set aside for guest speakers from several universities.

The mangled announcement over the public speakers confirms what he'd thought: the flight is going to be delayed by a few hours. Oh well, at least there was opportunity to work, bless the Internet. He makes his way back to the cashier for another cuppa (barely decent enough but he'll take whatever small favours came his way) and encounters the yet-again faintly contemptuous stare. This was not be borne.

He looks back, giving her the benefit of what a previous girlfriend had described as the "panty-dropper" stare, all intense, bright, blue-eyed concentration. Mystery woman snorts lightly and raises her eyebrows, as if to say _Really_? He can't help but frown; that look worked on every woman he'd encountered, and frankly even a few men. Her dark eyes twinkle ever more, apparently enjoying his discomfort. He can't help his answering abashed smirk, eyes roaming her face, cataloguing the number of micro reactions on her part.

"Sir? Here's your order." He jerks around, almost forgetting he'd been there to order tea.

He thanks the barrista and cheekily raises his cup in _her_ direction, hoping she recognises the slight challenge; her eyes narrows slightly. He grins and walks back to the table, somehow knowing that she's watching. As he gets back to work he hums along to the Christmas song on the speakers, feeling more festive than usual. He soon loses himself in making notes again and startles on being interrupted by the barrista, who is bringing him another cup.

"I didn't order..."

"Compliments of the lady at the counter, sir."

He looks up and feels vaguely alarmed on seeing her move towards the exit. With a hasty thanks to the more-than intrigued server, he rushes off hoping to forestall her departure. Looking around quickly he spots her by a potted plant. "You can't leave just yet."

She assesses him with those mesmerising eyes. "Why not?"

"I prefer company when I drink."

"Been managing just fine on your own."

"Well, let me buy you a 'thank you' token."

"Can't." She purses her lips and looks at her watch. "My shift starts in an hour."

Shift? Was she a doctor or a nurse? Undaunted, he tries again. "It would only take but ten minutes to drink a beverage."

Here she looks at him mockingly. "Depends on what I'm drinking." And starts to move away. Without thinking he blocks her advance and weathers the blast of her flashing eyes. Her stance shifts discreetly and her hands slide deliberately to her sides.

"You're awfully hard to convince to have a free drink."

"And you're trying way too hard to get company."

"Why did you buy me a cup of tea then?"

"Consider it a Christmas kindness. Looked like you needed one the way you were hunching over that laptop."

"Then it's your duty to follow through on that altruism to ensure a thirsty man is well quenched."

He realises then that he's leaning forward ever so slightly into her space and pulls back. Her expression still registers as flat – no, not flat, controlled – but her eyes are gleaming brightly from the exchange.

He grimaces and lays his cards on the table. "Maybe I'm intrigued by your gesture and want to get to know you more intimately."

"Practise that one a lot, huh?"

"The truth is never practised. It just is." He hesitates and sensing she doesn't care for flowery compliments keeps his words succinct. "I would truly like to repay you for your kind deed, nothing more."

She's searching his face at that, and seemingly deciding he's harmless, nods in the direction of the coffee shop. "We better make sure no one is stealing your stuff."

****************************************************

She settles gingerly into the chair, clearly hesitant about staying, but he waits until she's seated before pulling up his chair and closing his laptop.

"I can only stay for a few minutes."

"Plenty of time. Would you like to eat or...?"

"No thanks," she replies brusquely, then makes a face. "Sorry. It's been a while since I've done this."

He frowns. "I don't follow."

"Been convinced by a stranger to sit and make small talk over drinks, tea...whatever."

He experiences a rush of relief. If he's being completely honest, he is testing the waters himself and chatting with a beautiful woman over tea seems like good practice for the future. Besides he can't help but be fascinated by her. He decides to be just as candid. "I'm not a fan of it either. I guess you could say it's a chance for me to get back in the saddle, so to speak."

Her expression turns pensive, and she flashes a quick glance to his hands. "No, I'm not divorced. I was engaged though, but..." He shrugs, not wanting to talk about Katrina.

She hums out a sympathetic note and stares at her hands. "Yeah, well, some people aren't so great in relationships."

 _Good going, you twat, that will convince her to open up._ He hastily moves on. "My name is..."

"Not interested," she interrupts.

"Why can't I introduce myself?" he asks in amazement.

"You're waiting on a flight, right? To England?" At his nod, she adds, "So what's the point of doing the 'getting to know you' jazz when you'll be gone soon? Let's keep it simple."

He can't say he doesn't see the logic, but it sounds so impersonal. "At least can I find out your profession? You mentioned that you have a 'shift'. Are you in the medical field?"

She flashes a quick smile, and he is left a little breathless by the way it makes her whole face come alive, eyes dancing with brief merriment before returning to the usual reservation. "I'm a police officer, a lieutenant in the Westchester County Police Department." It's not hard to pick up the faint pride in her voice.

"May I refer to you by your rank then, Lieutenant?"

She squints. "Why are you calling it 'Left-tenant'? That a British thing?"

"Yes and in other parts of the Commonwealth as well. Actually, it dates back to Medieval times..." And before he knows it he's launching into (nerding out, according to Abraham) the confusion over the pronunciation of the "lieu" from the French, with the English at the time assuming the lips must be folded to form an "f" or "v" sound. By the time he's finished, he groans internally, berating himself for once again slipping into teaching mode in a casual setting, but she's more amused than bored, if the quirk of her lips and relaxed expression are anything to go by.

"Thanks for the information, Professor."

He grins weakly. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah, plus..." She looks a little guarded. "I saw your lecture at SHU the other day."

"You did?" He's positively beaming. Also that means she knows his name. "Were you there in your professional capacity?"

"No, as a student, believe it or not." She huffs a laugh. "Catching up on electives for undergrad Criminal Justice."

He's further intrigued. What are the odds that he would meet someone – a stunningly beautiful someone, his mind supplies helpfully – who attended his lecture and with whom he could converse freely over colonial American history?

"How are you finding your studies?"

Her expressive eyes dance again. "Challenging but good. It helps me in my job and will come in handy for the future."

"And how did you find the lecture?" He slips in as casually as possible.

Her eyes flash, but not with mirth. "History isn't really my thing, so I'm not the best person to ask."

He hears the false note and combined with her suddenly closed-off posture, realises she's hiding something. Then he frowns deeply, straightening abruptly in memory. "You recognised me at the counter." He continues when she remains silent. "And you didn't care for my lecture, was that it? Or was there something more?"

"As I said," she warns, carefully enunciating the words, "history isn't my thing, especially the golden age of white male privilege."

Ah, that explains it, particularly as he considers a great deal of that speech focused on how the backgrounds of three of the Founding Fathers – Washington, Jefferson and Franklin – prepared them for the rigours of the war. "Did it…were you…?" He uncharacteristically stutters over his words.

"Offended?" she supplies. "No. Well, a little," she amends. "It's just that…I've always found it odd that the men who signed the Declaration of Independence and had all these ideals about freedom somehow thought that owning other human beings was okay. And that history tends to look over the contributions of free men and women during that period." She looks thoughtful for a few seconds then shrugs. "I guess because one of my ancestors was a free woman during that time and she and her people gave a lot of help to the revolutionaries that isn't acknowledged outside of a few textbooks. I feel a little bitter that history is only for white folks doing brave things."

He feels poleaxed, as if suddenly weighted with cement and thrown into a pool. She's right, of course, that the 1700s – indeed even now – was especially easy for those who were white, male and wealthy. As a historian he'd read the texts recounting the stories of those brave men and women of colour who worked in the war effort and followed debates by fellow historians, but up until now it was largely, well, academic for him. But to hear the simplicity of her argument and the profound impact of her ancestor's legacy...right now he feels smaller than an inch. He naturally condoned slavery and abhorred the practice, but he could not deny that some of the men he admired had troubling aspects of their personalities that he had overlooked, blindly it seemed.

"Look, I'm sorry." Her voice brings him out of his musings. He looks up to see her fidget uncomfortably. "I didn't mean to…" she waves a hand helplessly looking for the right word, then starts to slide out of the seat. "Maybe it's best that I leave."

"No, please stay." His hand is on hers before he can consciously think about what he's doing. They glance down at their lightly entangled hands at the same time and he is amazed at the contrast, the undeniable strength in hers despite its size and how…comfortable…it feels. She pulls away gently and makes to stand again. "You're right about the privileged era and how some of the Founding Fathers did not practice what they espoused. It distresses me that I have failed to point out their shortcomings as well as their brilliance. Forgive me."

She twists her mouth wryly at that. "Nothing to forgive, not by me anyway. I gotta get going. It was nice meeting you." She's about to leave again and he feels that panic once more so he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "And leave me here alone?"

She lifts at eyebrow. "You're a big boy. I'm sure you'll manage."

"No I won't." And suddenly it's not a joke anymore, he really would miss her. He gazes at her intently. "Lieutenant, I haven't known you for a long time but I've felt more at ease in your company than I do with most. Please. Stay a while longer."

They regard each other quietly and he can tell that despite her reservations, she doesn't want to leave. In the end, she settles more firmly in the chair. And that is that.

*******************************************************  
Tacitly they steer the conversation away from the colonial period and talk about general matters. Later, he thanks all the deities he can think of that he has an eidetic memory to record all her expressions: amusement, when he recalls his attempts to drive "on the wrong side of the road, with all the bloody drivers honking and swearing"; sympathy and mild disdain, for his brief account on finding his best friend and fiancée in a compromising position a year ago; admiration, for his tenure at the university. He's convinced he's never smiled as much in his life, nor found someone so downright interesting before. She doesn't like to volunteer much information about herself, he realises, and so he devises ways to draw her attention away from what he suspects is a set of unhappy circumstances in her life by playing up the clueless Englishman travelling in New York. Whenever he makes her smile or laugh, he feels smug and hot and victorious at the same time. He recognises that he's completely smitten when he finds himself watching her mouth form words or chewing thoughtfully on soft, lush lips before answering a question. Her eyes lingering on his fingers makes his breath catch more than once.

It is simultaneously an intrusion and bitter disappointment when her phone comes to life, startling the pair. "Mills," she answers crisply, before eventually replying that she was running late, but would soon be on her way. He knows he cannot make her stay this time, now closer to the appointed hour she's due to report for her shift, but he cannot help feeling morose. He rises as she does, preparing to say something, anything, when she beats him to it. "I had a really good time." Her voice is sincere and, as usual, her speech compact and efficient. Were it him, they'd be there for a minute listing the ways in which he enjoyed himself. As it is, he is curiously tongue-tied, and absent-mindedly finds himself rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb.

"Ms. Mills," he rumbles, feeling that actions would speak better than words – and truly being bereft of speech for the first time in his life – he brings her hand to his lips, lingering a while into the sensation. He closes his eyes briefly as he inhales the scent of her skin. "It was my pleasure." This time the look they share is far more heated. Her mouth, slightly ajar, distracts his attention again. He wants nothing more than to kiss her generous lips, tracing them lightly with his fingers at first, then his own lips, before chasing the sweet curves of her tongue. Her eyes – those eyes will be the death of him! – stare back at him hazily, just as lost as he is by the sudden acknowledgement of the flare developing between them. He's convinced that as long as he lives he will never forget this moment, where it feels as if there's no one in the room besides them two.

"I want to stay in contact with you," he mumbles unthinkingly, but it is the wrong thing to say, for she visibly retreats behind the stony wall of their first encounter and pulls away, unnecessarily fixing the cuff of her jacket.

"That's not a good idea. You're leaving." Her firm voice takes him aback for a moment, before he presses on.

"I can come back. That's the good thing about aeroplanes these days, they fly routes every day, every week, every month." Idly he's reaching for her fingers as he speaks, rubbing them gently, but she smiles a little sadly and pulls away.

"Everyone always leaves. Best to tie up loose ends now and let it end as a good memory." But even as she's speaking, she gazes at him soulfully before taking a decisive step back. He can almost see the armour sliding on. "Thanks for the coffee, Professor Crane."

He's watching the most fascinating woman he's ever met in his life go and can no more stop her from leaving than he can bottle the wind. "At least, tell me why you really bought me tea. "

Her cool expression melts a little. "You know, I wasn't even supposed to be here today, but one of the guards got sick and I was asked to fill in for an hour. Afterwards I came here to get coffee, kill some time before shift, then you walk in." She takes a deep breath. "I kinda felt bad about giving you stink-eye at the counter when you did nothing wrong, so I figured I'd apologise with a gift of tea. I hear you British have a thing about that." She continues to regard him almost warmly for a few beats, then determinedly turns around and walks away. She never looks back.

********************************************  
It turns out the plane comes earlier than anticipated and he's in JFK in no time at all. He's almost sorry that there's extra time on his hands now because he's reliving 50 minutes in an airport coffee shop that he's convinced have forever marked his life.

Back in London, two months later, he's still adjusting to life without her. It's funny that before he'd considered himself a reasonably content man, well, before Bram and Katrina. Now he burns from the shadow of her, aches to tell her of anecdotes, of students, especially of promising, new research he's undertaken of the roles of free men and women in the revolutionary war of American, research that means he could take a sabbatical to gather more information from the Greater New York area …

Restless, he skims over some papers submitted by students and feeling short of temper with the sample he's reviewing, gets up irritably and strides over to the window of his office. He's been full of throbbing energy these past few days in particular, feeling an urge to do…something, anything…in relation to **_her_** (in his mind, she's always **_her_** , italicised and bolded to distinguish from all other females). He knows not what, but it's driving him crazy, this conviction that he has to leave Britain and take up refuge in Sleepy Hollow. His head meets the window pane with a bump, woefully misjudging the distance and not caring a jot for the mild pain he feels.

He's hasn't been able to look at a cup of tea, furthermore drink one for the last two months. And all of this torment for a woman he's spent less than an hour with. All he knows about her is a last name and that she's a police officer in the constabulary.

He frowns, feeling as if he's been hit by lightning. _All he knows is her last name and that she's a Lieutenant in the Westchester constabulary_. This time when his head thuds against the window pane it rattles in its frame. He's an idiot, a first-class country bumpkin dunce of the highest order, thinking not with his brain but with some other part of his anatomy. He eagerly boots up his laptop and googles the Westchester County Police Department and dials heart in mouth, knowing not what this call would bring but feeling better for having done it. He asks haltingly for "Lef-,no Loo-, rather Ms. Mills, please" and is then transferred to another line before he hears the voice answering abruptly, "Mills."

He's so relieved, he's ashamed to feel a slight prick behind his now closed eyelids. He pauses to gather his thoughts and steady his breath. "Mills," the voice repeats a tad more tersely and he blurts out before she disconnects the call, "Hello, Lieutenant."

A sharp inhalation is his response. Well that answers one burning question: she remembers. For a while, there is silence, but at her whispered, "I thought you forgot." he doesn't fight the urge to collapse, boneless, in his chair, head in hand.

"I could never forget you, Ms. Mills. I've missed you badly, achingly, despairingly." This isn't the way to do it, he thinks hazily. It should be light chat, before easing into exchanging email addresses or Skype accounts, not this convoluted mess of feelings, strangling him with their sheer desire to escape so she knows how precious she is to him.

A muffled sound comes over the line again and yet somehow he knows she is as deeply affected by this connection between them. He's a little taken aback then when she speaks in brisk fashion, before concentrating on what she's saying: "Write this down." And she rattles off a series of numbers he assumes are her personal contact details before she makes him promise to call her back after her shift ends. "I can't do this here in a station full of hard-ass, nosey cops," she says apologetically.

"Not to fear, Ms. Mills. I look forward to our later conversation." He swears it's not intentional that his voice deepens at that point, but he'd be lying if he didn't acknowledge that thinking of her, no talking with her, had a profound impact on his libido. Her exhaled sigh over the miles of airspace tells him it isn't that far removed for her as well.

***************************************************  
As the plane taxis to a stop in front the terminal, it's all Ichabod can do to restrain himself from running to the door to stand first in line. Just after the plane landed, he'd already grabbed his laptop from under the seat in front, prompting his neighbouring passenger to remark at his impatience. Impatience! He'd been the very model of patience. It after all took forbearance to endure the rest of the semester, and paying the penalties for a late application for a one-year sabbatical to pursue research opportunities at the Sleepy Hollow University in African-American revolutionary war heroes. Abbie had grinned at him, all proud of himself, when they skyped after the application had been granted. They'd laughed at his impression of the Dean of his University who was not happy that he was going to the "backwoods of rural New York".

At the end of her laughter, she'd grown apprehensive. "What is it, Treasure?" She couldn't help but beam at the appellation before falling serious again. "Abbie…"

"I want you to know something." She squared her shoulders, looking resolute. "If this thing," she gestured vaguely between them, "doesn't work out, I won't hold you back if you want to leave, go back home. I'm not that person. Just…be honest with me, that's all I ask."

He knew it cost her to open up voluntarily like this, to show vulnerability, to pretend that it wouldn't hurt if their relationship ends. And he won't belittle her feelings of doubt or uncertainty, not when a trail of broken relationships litter her life, teaching her from a young age that everyone eventually leaves; from her father (wretched brute) walking out on her sister and her at young age; her mother, driven to alcoholism and eventually death over the heartache left in the trail of her husband's disappearance; her former lover, a detective still on the police force (Ichabod was bitterly jealous about that). Truth be told even he has questioned his judgement over packing up all he owns and moving to Sleepy Hollow, provisionally for the research sabbatical, but then as a more long-term endeavor. It's crazy and spontaneous, especially for someone as logical and methodical as he is (In his head, he can hear her scoff at that. She deemed him an impulsive, egotistical asshole during a pretty heated exchange once. The memory of how they "kissed and made up", as it were, lingers happily as a favourite recollection to pull out when he misses her too much. Her slick fingers kneading and rubbing, her moans and sighs, his hands following her hoarse commands, steadily building the flame between them higher as they both reached their apex.)

He ached to be there in person to smooth the curls falling into her face and cup her cheeks, but all he has now is words. "You are right that the future is an uncertain thing, but hear me Grace Abigail Mills. It is our fate to meet life's challenges together. And I will do all in my power to ensure that I am there with you, to see through those challenges to the end." He noted the sheen in her eyes, while trying to ignore the stinging in his. He fears he's too maudlin; time to pull out one of those ridiculous phrases to chase her blues. "You are truly my ride or die." Her delighted laughter made his night.

Ichabod walks as quickly as he can to the arrivals hall, blanking out all other thoughts until he's left with a litany of mental chants, "Abbie, Abbie, Abbie…" His sharp intake on seeing her in person causes him to close his eyes briefly, savour her realtime image, before his daddy-long-legs as she calls them brings him to her side. They spend a few seconds, minutes, or maybe a lifetime steadily gazing at the other, before Abbie raises a hesitant hand to his cheek. His slides over hers, and the feeling of home grows within Ichabod. In unison their foreheads meet, a little awkwardly because of the height difference, doing nothing more than breathing in each other's scents, at full peace for the first time in months.

*******************************************

He is aware of a certain pressure and expectation for their reunion. He's thought of it often enough, fantasised, oh, countless times about how he would bring her to climax - and having the visual, pixelated version of her riding out an orgasm has lasted through the lonely months - but he admits to a certain nervousness as they drive to her home. They haven't even kissed. How would they manage more? She glances in his direction, picking up on his skittishness and raises their folded hands together to kiss his lingeringly. "Ride or die, remember?" He casts her a fond, if slightly exasperated, glance and repeats, "Ride or die."

By mutual decision, they agree not to live together immediately. Abbie has become too used to her own space and Ichabod will be acclimatising to several changes at once. But for the first two nights, they are determined to carve out this time for themselves.

Abbie opens the door and performs a comical "Ta-da!", before closing the door behind them. Ichabod is left with a brief impression of tidy countertops and workspaces in the kitchen. He should register more but his concentration is focused on the pair on fine eyes staring at him, glittering with a wild message he knows is echoed in his. By tacit agreement, they head to her living room, his suitcase temporarily abandoned in the hall, and sit on the sofa, until Abbie moves to straddle Ichabod, resting her forehead on his. His breath is coming in gasps, his skin is simultaneously oversensitive and starved for touch. She begins to gently rock her hips, connecting deliciously with his swollen cock and he hisses, hands involuntarily squeezing her back tightly. They kiss, tentatively at first, simple, fleeting pecks, before venturing deeper, tongues duelling desperately, heads twisting one way then the next and they both lose what little control they have.

"I need to see you," she whispers, and they quickly disrobe, chucking articles of clothing randomly in their wake. He thinks at first she will head for the bedroom, but she pulls him down again on the sofa before dropping to her knees in front of him. If she's doing what he thinks she's about to, this will not last long indeed. The first lick from that marvelously talented tongue of hers has him arching out of the chair, hands tightening in her hair and restraining himself from jerking too deeply into her mouth. She looks at him from on her knees, dark eyes conveying her naughty thoughts as she licks her lips and delves in again. He's the hardest he's ever been and – Jesus Christ, her mouth is fantastic! – he's less than a few strokes away from coming. In the end, she must pick up his garbled communication that his climax is fast approaching because she pulls him out of her mouth and directs his cum dripping and warm, onto her breasts rubbing it in slowly and sensuously with her head thrown back in helpless pleasure. The sight of her marked by him drives a possessive desire deeper than anything he's ever felt and in no time at all, the tables are turned, with her flat on back and both legs thrust in the air while he licks, nibbles and laps at her delicious cunt. She whines and tries to direct him but he knows what she's instinctively asking, carefully pushing one finger into her wet heat. Fuck, she's so oily it's running down his fingers to his wrist and he's back to full hardness in no time at all. By the time his second and third fingers go in and his thumb is massaging her clit, she's coming hard, gasping his name brokenly. They decide to shower after that, but barely make it to the bed in time. The wall, they realise, does come in handy for more athletic positions.

Later, much later, as they are munching on food, unselfconsciously naked in her kitchen, Abbie pauses from chewing on a cracker, frowns, then abruptly starts to smirk. She catches his curious gaze. "If you stay on and get tenure at SHU and I do post-grad studies, I might have to take a class or two of American History."

She's right and he's considering the ramifications of it when she leans forward licking her lips saucily. His thinking gets decidedly fuzzier when she does that. "Maybe this means I have to ask my professor to allow me to do anything to get a higher grade. What do you think?" His mind is flashing to his old office in London and – she's right again – those types of desks are the perfect height for any extracurricular activities they may need to engage in. But now, she's standing and stretching, firm body flashing seductively under the dimmed lights, and looking in his direction. Or rather at the couple of hard inches that are determined to make their presence known. She smiles again, revelling in the effect she has on him and moves toward the bedroom. "Maybe it's time to test out the logistics by the writing table in the study." And stalks off, confident he will follow. And he does; as it turns out, he always will.

THE END

A/N

So. I did the thing. First let me say that Ichabod Crane talks way too much. I had not intended for this to be so long nor only in his voice but he apparently had a lot to say lol.

This is my first Sleepy Hollow fic though I've written before in other fandom's (years ago). I love these two idiots too much and was tempted back to the fold. Hope you enjoy!

ETA: Some text is paraphrased from the show.


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